Truth and Consequences
by elindiodelmondo
Summary: When Armadillo is attacked in the Spring of 1916, a heavily indebted Josef Wolfe is hired to scout ahead of the US Army's expedition to capture the rebels. As he travels across the dying frontier and into war-torn Mexico, he learns all is not as it appears.
1. Chapter 1

One

_**Blackwater, New Austin, March 1916**_

I took a long pull on my glass of Overholt, contemplating a very difficult decision. I glanced across at the faces around the table. Each was as stonily impassive as the next, but every so often, a glint of uncertain hunger would betray itself in someone's eyes. Jaws were tightening, tempers were shortening and a choice had to be made. Soon.

I set the glass down and cracked a broad smile.

"I'll raise you by three thousand" I pushed a stack of green chips across the felt, into the pot. I signalled to one of the girls to refill my glass of rye, relaxing a little into the chair, giving nothing away, but inwardly hoping my gamble would pay off. The raise had caused disconcertion amongst my fellow players. It was almost as if a current had gone around the table, unsettling those who had, up until that point, believed they had a safe hand.

The pot now stood at fourteen thousand dollars, the equivalent to, if not more than,

the amount most people in this town would make in a lifetime. Not that the men I was playing with where from the ordinary denizens of Blackwater. They were members of a Cabal which controlled the economy and governance of the both the City of Blackwater and the State of New Austin. A group of businessmen, politicians and attorneys who would use any means, even violence to attain and maintain power, who would order a man's death over two cents.

And there I was, playing high stakes poker with them.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

Before the Gadsden purchase of 1854, the region had been a relative wilderness, inhabited sparsely by tribes of Apache Indians who roamed the plains hunting Buffalo, as had their ancestors before them. The Mexicans did not settle north of the San Luis river, instead remaining on the southern edge, in the province of Nuevo Paraiso. When the Mexicans sold the land north of the river to America, the virgin prairies which occupied the area from Flat Iron Lake in West Texas to Southern California fell victim to that grandest of American schemes: Manifest Destiny.

Almost instantaneously, thousands were flocking to the newly-created Territory of

New Austin, to take advantage of the Federal Government's promise of cheap, fertile land. Many of the small homesteaders, who had sold everything they owned back east in anticipation of success, returned home within a year stone broke. They found that the advertisements which had so vociferously endorsed moving to the territory had been less than truthful. In all but a few isolated pockets, the land was not suited for crop cultivation, and was favoured towards rearing cattle. Naturally, this gave the ranchers an advantage when claiming land and water rights, and for a quarter of a century, the territory of New Austin was the cattle capital of the Western Territories. There was, however, a problem.

Whilst New Austin is primarily flat, although rising steeply into a plateau in the east,

it is flanked to the north by steep mountains. This created a problem when trying to herd cattle out of the state, as any cowpuncher will tell of the danger of taking plains cattle over mountain paths, especially in the numbers these boys drove twice a year. The only way to transport them to the stockyards in Texas and Kansas was to ship them over Flat Iron Lake in barges.

The cattlemen decided on a site on the western edge of the lake, at the edge, and a

wooden dock as hastily constructed. A saloon soon followed, as did a brothel, gunsmith, general store, another saloon until the dock settlement had become a fully-fledged town named Blackwater. By the time Lincoln took his office, Blackwater had become a roaring twenty four hour Gomorrah, where a lonely cowboy could seek solace in a shot of rot gut for two cents, and find fifteen minutes of feminine affection for a quarter.

As the Great House divided against itself, fell, and was rebuilt, the cattlemen of New

Austin glanced eastwards with only a scant disinterest, before returning to their whiskey women and cattle, which they gladly sold to both Yankee and Rebel alike. With Reconstruction, however, came the railroad, a cancer which although appearing benign, grew inexorably, and brought a slow, painful death upon the cowboy's way of life.

The first place to receive the railroad in the region was, of course, Blackwater. At

first, this brought only cosmetic changes to the town, the wharf rats now transferring their labour to the town's freight yard. Yet the railroad kept expanding across the territory, linking up the isolated ranches, gradually eliminating the town's reason to exist. The saloons and bordellos kept roaring, and soon, along with the gunsmith, became the only profit making business in town. Blackwater's proximity to the Mexican border and lack of law enforcement meant that it soon became infested with all manner of scum, seeking a temporary haven and stop over on the way to the border. Justice was administered arbitrarily; Duelling, knife fights and road robbery of passers-by were permitted; Stealing from fellow criminals, cheating and sneak attacks, all of which were common occurrences, merited lynching from the town's tree. Rape was punished in so much as it was a theft of services (the only women in the town being working girls) and only then if they were 'protected'.

Blackwater could have kept roaring in this manner until it finally burnt itself out,

had it not been for the advancing forces of civilisation and industrialisation, marching slowly west across the Great Plains. Coal and iron ore had been discovered in New Austin, and the forested mountains, now completely devoid of stocks of fur, were ripe for exploitation. Only the reputation of Blackwater as a town to be avoided at all costs prevented any enterprising businessmen from taking advantage.

In the vicinity of Blackwater at this time, lived a gentleman named Elijah Johns, along

with his family. The Johns clan heralded from Missouri, where they had owned a small yet successful plantation, with a few slaves as field hands. Elijah had risen to the position of Patriarch of the family as the Abolition crisis began to spiral out of control. Johns was a man of strong opinions; as a State Senator, he argued throughout the Bleeding Kansas period the importance of Slavery as a cornerstone of the American way of life, whilst stressing the importance of Federal Unionism and decrying the Secessionist movement as 'seditious'.

When the eleven states seceded and the war between the two Americas broke out,

Johns's county was occupied by CSA troops. He quickly reversed his opinions and became one of Missouri's strongest supporters of secession. Johns (admittedly at great personal risk) provided food and shelter to Confederate soldiers and guerrillas. He gained the CSA's trust enough to be asked to hide a large cache of gold stolen from Yankee reserves. When the tide turned, and the Union regained a foothold in the area, Johns emerged as a true-blue Yankee patriot, emancipating his slaves and betraying Confederate supporters in the area. He also made a token gesture of returning less than half of the gold he had been trusted with to the local Union commander.

Sensing that he had made one too many enemies in the state of Missouri, Elijah

Johns quickly sold up and placed his family on the long wagon train across the plains, eventually settling on a large area of land on the outskirts of Blackwater. With the encroachment of the railroad, Johns sensed an even greater opportunity. With the remaining Confederate gold, Johns purchased shares in the fledgling South-Western Railroad Company. Through a combination of shrewd business dealings, skulduggery and outright violence, Johns took control of the company and extended the lines across all of New Austin, connecting Texas to the Pacific coast and finally removing the 'Native Problem' from the area. The discovery of mineral resources in New Austin, however, beckoned for higher profits. Being an enterprising businessman, Johns, now joined by his two sons Elijah Junior and Nathaniel, and his nephew Elijah Hutton, had little trouble in solving the 'Blackwater Problem.

May 22, 1881. Most casual observers of Western Folklore are familiar with the date of the Blackwater Massacre. The story, according to commonly held opinion, is fairly simple. The town's criminal population apparently turn on each other in an orgy of wanton violence, leaving over a hundred dead. The survivors are quickly defeated and rounded up by a posse of lay lawmen, tired with the rule of bandits and gangsters in their territory. It is led by the newly-elected Sheriff of Blackwater, Nathaniel Johns and his deputies Elijah Hutton, Ranch heir Michael Darrow, and lawyers Patrick Roark and Ezra Starling. The apprehended culprits are tried by Judge Enoch Greenup and a jury of upstanding citizens, and sentenced to death for murder and breaching the peace, sentences carried out promptly. This is lauded in Newspapers across America as an example of American law, order and justice winning over the savage excesses of the untamed frontier, and establishes Blackwater as a bastion of civilisation in the 'Wild' West.

The reality of the situation, known only to few is far less glamorous. Hutton, with a

Bankroll from his uncle, hired a crew of ex-soldiers, Pinkerton men and a few bounty hunters, the same people who had assisted in sorting out the 'Native Problem', to clear the filth from Blackwater's streets

They rode into town quietly, and went from door to door along the town's

Main street, from beer joint to gin mill, cat house to crib, card room to dice pit, dragging out any and all who appeared unsavoury. They lined them up in the street and shot them, one by one, but leaving every fourth man alive. When they had done, they herded those who could still walk into the town's square, under the lynching tree, where the Sheriff and his deputies took charge of the situation. They fired into the crowd indiscriminately, before arresting the survivors. The town's two largest saloons were converted into a jail-cum-courthouse, where Enoch Greenup assembled a jury from the men who had begun the day's shooting. The defendants were asked their names and ages, before being found guilty and having sentenced of death passed. They were hanged in batches of five the same day.

When told this, I was incredulous. How could they keep that covered up? Why had

The truth not been revealed? My storyteller proceeded to lift his huge Canuck head above his shoulders and let out a deep laugh, giving a full view of his toothless mouth. Claude LaRoux was a huge trapper from the St. John's Valley, who had moved to New Austin in search of fresh sources of Beaver. With the profits he'd made, he founded a store in Blackwater catering to hunters and outdoorsmen, and was on the verge of selling up before the massacre. His store was on Main Street, between two saloons and adjacent to the town square, so he saw everything. He related the tale of what he had seen stood in the doorway of his shop, as we sat on a hill overlooking Santiago harbour. I'd positioned myself so his bulk shielded me from the harsh Cuban sun.

"Why would anyone want to know the truth?" he said incredulously in his thick Acadian accent, fixing me with a hard stare "The truth is not important. It is too painful for people to bear. That those with power would abuse it, would break the law to make a favourable outcome, that is something people do not want to know. They would rather savour the victory they believe they achieved, in the hope that it makes things better for the future"

His accent took a few second to decipher, but even then I didn't understand. I believed in the rule of law, that those who made the law and held power did so for honest reasons and would uphold it. I believed that all people had an innate desire to know the truth, that they wouldn't blindly believe a lie, even if it was better than the truth. But I was still young and idealistic back then.

Obviously my feelings of disbelief registered on my face, as LaRoux again tilted his

Head back and gave another dark laugh. He clapped me on the back and stood up. "Come on" he said, not unkindly "Let's see if this _petit-ville de merde _has a bar. I'm gonna buy you a drink"

One way or another, the massacre proved to be a blessing for New Austin's economy

The presence of law and order in the territory assuaged the fears of the pioneer industrialists. They flocked to the hills and began digging for coal and ore. The ramshackle buildings of Blackwater were cleared away, and the town was rebuilt in brick, with paved streets. Two factories were created and the docks and freight yards reopened. All of this took place under the helm of Elijah Hutton, Elijah Johns having left this mortal life after a violent bout of apoplexy.

As ranchers, and then railroad men serving ranchers, the Johns family had held

strong Democratic sympathies. With their new status as pioneers of industry, they swapped allegiances to the Republican party, with Elijah Johns opening and becoming chairman of their New Austin Chapter. The local businessmen flocked to join, standing as city Aldermen, and when New Austin was finally granted statehood in '85, as State Senators. The mining bosses, industrialists and lumbermen all invested their money in the Blackwater bank, which funded the city's expansion, and made large donations to public charities, building parks, libraries and a theatre, all of which were opened by the 'Heroes' of the Blackwater massacre, and bore large inscriptions detailing the money provided by the Republican party.

The power in Blackwater was structured as a pyramid. At the bottom were the

industrialists and businessmen, who made up the core of the Republican party. Chief amongst them were Elijah Johns junior, heir apparent at South Western Railroad, mining boss Stanley Ludd and industrialist Jeremiah Palmer. Above them were the politicians, whom they supported financially, in return for favours and protection. These included Senator Michael Darrow, Congressmen Patrick Roark and Ezra Starling, Chief Justice Enoch Greenup, and State Governor Nathaniel Johns. Each of these had been elected to their post in '85 on the back of their fame from the Massacre, and had used this to secure re-election for over thirty years.

At the top stood Elijah Hutton. Although content to, on the surface, hold only a

Minor position as Chairman of the GOP and Treasurer of Blackwater council, Hutton held true power in the state. He made and broke men's careers, appointed people to office and subtly influenced policy, both at State and National levels, whilst appearing as purely a background figure. Hutton was the true driving force behind the Blackwater Cabal.

The whores and gamblers still existed in Blackwater, and businesss was still thriving.

Whereas they had openly touted for business before the massacre, they were now consigned to 'Grit Row' the city's red light district on the waterfront, and had to pay a 'tax' to the city treasurer in return for protection from the police and the growing temperance and morality movement in the city. These, in turn, were kept at bay by the best efforts of the Republican party to close down the city's brothels and gambling dens, slowly but surely, one at a time. Such are the benefits of civilisation


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Thirty five years on from the 'Battle of Blackwater' and in the city's most prestigious hotel, built tall and square in harsh red brick, I sat in the best suite facing off against the 'Crème de la Crème', Stanley Brigham, Jeremiah Palmer, Harmon Westlake, and the two Elijahs, Johns and Hutton. A mere mortal such as myself would not usually be permitted within ten foot of this table, unless serving drinks. I found myself, however, in the possession of a reputation as one of the State's top Poker players (It is true that I have cumulatively won over fifty thousand dollars playing the game, but by my own estimation, I've probably lost the same amount). I therefore received an invitation to join them from Elijah Hutton himself. Privately, he offered to stake me the ten thousand buy-in in return for collusion with him in defrauding fellow players. The two of us would clandestinely split the profits afterwards.

Elijah may have been a kingmaker and power broker, but he was a crooked bastard who would stiff his mother out of a red cent. If he could so easily cheat his business partners and political allies, even his own cousin, I seriously doubted that I would see any of the money which he had promised me. Not only was I having to concentrate on trying to best my opponents, I also had to try and anticipate the con he would pull on me.  
The pot now stood at fourteen thousand dollars, with only the river card. Harmon Westlake had folded on his hole cards. Escaping a scandal over false bond certificates which had put two of his colleagues way for several years, he had set up and managed an outpost of one of New York City's more successful banks, relishing the role as financier to the Cabal. Short fat and bespectacled, with beady eyes and sweaty palms, Westlake acted as a conduit between the mines, factories and lumber camps of New Austin, and the oak panelled boardrooms and well-stocked vaults of Wall Street.  
Two seats away from him, I held two pairs, a six on the table and an eight in my hand, in most cases a secure set of cards, although not necessarily when playing for the sort of stakes that we were. I glanced furtively across the table at my partner, who gave four small scratches of his nose, and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the felt four times, signalling that he held a pair of fours, hearts and spades. This hand was not secure enough to support a three thousand bet either, but I was gambling on the river card coming up clubs, in which case I'd have a flush, which was definitely a safe hand.

But now, the choice was up to the others, whether to call my bet, raise or fold. I was hoping for the latter. On my left, Elijah Johns, straw coloured hair, beard and paunch, was the first to break.

"I fold!" he spat as if trying to rid himself of a bad taste, and threw away his cards in a similar manner. As Elijah Senior's eldest son and heir, Junior received everything on a silver platter, and was always been content to let others do the leg work, reaping the profits for himself. Despite appearing at first glance a member of the idle rich, his bluff manner concealed a cunning brain, albeit one which was easily upset when things did not go the way he had planned. His schemes, however, whilst well thought out and logical, lacked practicality and reality, and so he usually relied upon his younger brother and cousin to critique and refine his ideas, However, he resented them heavily for this.

Bypassing Westlake, it was Stanley Brigham's turn to decide whether or not to stayin the game. Unlike the others in the Cabal, who had been born into wealth, Brigham had started out as a dirt-poor miner in the Pennsylvania coalfields. Finding strike-breaking more profitable than strike-making, he had gained the bosses' trust and risen through the ranks to a white-collar job in Scranton Mineral Exploration. By savvy manipulation of the workforce and collusion with Harmon Westlake to reduce the company's value, Brigham engineered an elaborate scheme to buy out SME's owners and gain control of the company. He was tall and broad, built like a brick outhouse, with a reputation for fearlessness. This time, however, caution took the better of him, and after downing his glass of brandy in one, he folded.

Next up was Elijah Hutton. Glancing at his hand, he grinned as he picked up a stack of green chips.

"I'll call that" he sneered, before taking another stack of chips from his pile "and raise you by a thousand" I had to stifle an involuntary smile of my own. He knew his hand wasn't safe, and he fully intended to fold on the river. He was attempting to drive the betting as far up as possible between the two of us to force the others into folding.

Finally, Jeremiah Palmer had to call Hutton's wager. He stared hard at his cards, before wrapping his tiny hands around his entire stack of chips and pushing them across the table.

"I'll raise you by four thousand and go all in" he said plainly in the death whisper he never spoke above. Palmer, owner of the Palmer Steelworks on the outskirts of the city, was a small, quiet man who looked like as though a mouse would petrify him. The oldest of the group, Palmer gave the appearance of being a man of the people, regularly attending the Baptist Church he had paid for to be built himself on the outskirts of town, and taking on the role of church warden, and spent Sunday afternoon reading from the bible to the children of the poor. His piety was, for the most part, feigned, as he drank and gambled, whilst simultaneously publicly regarding these vices as shameful. He pushed his chips into the centre of the table, and sat back, giving nothing away

I lit a cigarette whilst I contemplated my next move. I could fold now, and the amount I'd lose wouldn't be fatal. If I stayed in, I'd be risking everything, but the reward would be great. I glanced at Hutton. He shot back a look which was a clear order to fold. That sealed it for me.

"I'll go all in" I fixed Palmer with a solid stare as I matched his bet. I downed the shot of whiskey in front of me, hoping my face wouldn't go bright red and give my hand away. Hutton, who was doing a good job of concealing his seething rage, folded without even the merest hint of venom in his voice. He picked up the deck and dealt the final card, a six of hearts. Not the flush I was hoping for, but still, a very respectable full house. I felt a wave of relief fall over me, and so I began to indicate that I wanted my glass refilled as Palmer turned over his hole cards. One of them was a six.

Damn. Palmer allowed himself the faintest of smirks as he raked the chips towards him. Hutton, ever the politician, kept a straight face.

"Looks like that's me out" I said as I rose from the table, my face bright crimson.

"Looks like it is" replied Palmer. He was smirking at Hutton, however. Hutton noticed and flashed a smile back and then turned to me. I knew right then that I was a dead man.

"Will you not stop for another drink? He asked, his voice wavering slightly. I shook my head

"I must leave I'm afraid, other business to attend to. I thank you kindly for your hospitality" I headed toward the door and out into the cool evening lighting another cigarette with my surprisingly steady hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Four

A gentle breeze was blowing from the lake across town, cooling the temperature of what had been an unseasonably warm day. I realised quite how warm it had been in that room. I turned a corner and walked towards the lakefront, almost in a daze. I then realised how monumentally stupid it was to be wandering around in broad daylight whilst owing a huge amount of money to the most powerful man in the state. I decided that if I wanted to have any chance of reaching my dotage, then the best course of action would be to skip town and put as much distance between Hutton and myself as was possible, maybe a couple of oceans' worth. I turned on my heel and made towards my lodgings, a room in a small and greasy saloon on the edge of Grit Row. I entered the dank building, my eyes adjusting to the contrast from the bright sunshine outside, and made my way over to the bar. The lank spider of a man behind the counter nodded  
"How much do I owe you for my stay" I enquired  
"Two nights? A dollar, chief" I slapped a note and some coins onto the bar surface  
"Give me a beer and a shot of rye" He nodded and poured the beer into a mug, then produced a brown bottle from the counter behind him and filled a small glass full of the yellow liquid.  
"You in a hurry, chief?" he ventured with a slight grin on his face. I threw down an extra few coins.  
"Leave the bottle". He nodded and set it down next to the glass, withdrawing slightly behind the bar. I downed the shot and took a long drink from the panelled mug. The bartender had fixed me with a curious glance. I glared back at him, and he soon got the message. He took up an empty glass and began polishing it, attempting to appear casual. I finished my beer and walked up the stairs adjacent to the bar towards my room. I entered the tiny cubicle and unlocked the cabinet across from the mattress, withdrawing my knapsack. I checked to make sure everything was still in there, before changing out of my suit and into something more suitable for riding through the frontier. I went back downstairs and put the cabinet key on the bar top and a nickel as a tip for the barman. He nodded again, and slunk back into the dark behind the bar. I exited the bar and headed towards the coral.

As I turned the corner onto Willis avenue I almost collided into a tall man in a bowler hat. I stopped dead and began to apologise until I realised who it was. Micah Thomas, officially, worked as Elijah Hutton's driver. Unofficially, he enforced his employer's laws amongst the less savoury types of the state with a switchblade or revolver. He stared at me as if trying to place my face. I curled my hand into a fist.  
"Wolfe!" he grinned "You seem in a hurry?" I shook my head  
"No, I just don't like to waste time. You know how it is." He chuckled. For an utterly evil bastard, he was surprisingly affable.  
"So where are you off to then?" I didn't know whether he knew about the fiasco at the poker table, but if he did then he certainly wasn't showing it. I shrugged.  
"Off to Manzanita. Something to do with a consignment of liquor which hasn't reached its destination" Thomas laughed again.  
"Of course it would be you if there's liquor involved. Well, I mustn't keep you." He held out his hand. I relaxed mine and grasped his. We parted. I noticed that he was heading worryingly in the direction of the poker game. I made a run for the corral and jumped on my horse, after quickly paying the man attending to them. I waited until I reached the outskirts of town before I spurred the horse into a gallop.

I made camp as the day reached nightfall in a small copse a few hundred yards from the road in Hennigan's Stead. One thing was certain- I wasn't going anywhere near Manzanita; I was going to head to Mexico and from there try and get a boat to the other side of the world. I had people I could describe as friends who lived in South Africa; and that seemed far away enough to escape Hutton's influence. The problem was I was almost stone broke, without enough to afford the cost of passage abroad. I dug a tin of beans out of my knapsack and opened it. I hadn't lit a fire as I didn't want to draw attention, and so I ate the beans cold. They were disgusting. I let out a bitter chuckle, thinking about what might have been if I'd stayed in the cobbler's shop in Illinois. I thought about my father, for the first time in a while, as I flattened my bedroll. It had gone cold, and so I took out a couple of blankets and curled up.

I woke in the half light, and re-joined the trail, heading towards the Mexican border. I became aware of a loud galloping sound behind me, which was getting closer. I turned around and saw a column of men on horseback, three abreast, riding towards me. I spurred my horse into a gallop, not really sure what was going on. Surely Hutton, hadn't sent a posse that large after me? Either way, I wasn't going to stick around and find out. I decided to try and outrun them, and lose them at the next junction, when I heard the sound of a bugle emanating from the group. I turned again to examine them, and noticed that they were all dressed in identical khaki uniforms. The riders in front were all gesturing with their hands as if to say 'move aside'. I took the hint and moved off the road. As they passed, I realised that they were soldiers, a whole squadron of cavalry.  
I rode on for another few miles, until I heard another similar galloping sound. I turned around, and there was another column of cavalry. I again moved to the other side of the trail and let them pass. Something was obviously going on. I wondered whether it was the Indians, although they'd been quiet of late. I continued on the trail, half expecting to see more cavalry heading towards the frontier.

I'd planned to bypass Armadillo, for fear of being recognised by any of Hutton's men. Not that he didn't have guys south of the border, but they were fewer and I could put a bullet in them easier down there. However, the further I rode the more I noticed curls of black smoke coming from the town's direction. Along with the soldiers I'd seen that morning, it was enough to pique my interest. What was that old proverb I'd read, 'Curiosity killed the cat'? I probably should have taken heed, but I couldn't help it. I followed the fork which led towards Armadillo. As I got closer, the acrid burning smell began to invade my nostrils. Two soldiers appeared on horseback with rifles drawn, both of them young, looking frightened and angry  
"Who the hell are you?" one of them demanded  
"I'm just a traveller, passing through" I replied  
"Well there's nothing to see here stranger! Why don't you just leave now!" I stayed still, craning my neck to see what was going on behind them.  
"I'm no stranger, I have friends here. I suggest you let me through" Wrong move.  
"Like hell he's just passing through, corporal, I bet he's on it" shouted the other one. The first soldier bristled, before raising his rifle  
"Get off the goddamn horse and put your hands up!" he screamed. I did as he said, as the second soldier did the same. He walked over to me and slammed his rifle into my stomach, knocking me to the floor  
"Lie still!" he pushed his rifle into my face. Forcing it into the dirt  
"I'll go tell 'em we've caught one of the fuckers!" The corporal road off towards the town whilst the first soldier remained with the barrel of his rifle in my ear  
"You're for it now, boy!" he snarled.


End file.
